Gone, Baby, Gone (Kenzie & Gennaro 4)
Page 64And Helene opened her mouth and howled without making a sound.
She sat on the floor, blood pouring from her torn hand onto her jeans. Her body shook with abandonment and grief and horror, and her head dropped back to her shoulders as she looked up at the ceiling, and tears poured from her eyes and she rocked on her haunches and continued to howl without making a sound.
At six that night, before we’d had a chance to talk to him, Bubba and Nelson Ferrare walked into a bar Cheese owned in Lower Mills. They told the three skagheads and the bartender to take a lunch break, and ten minutes later most of the bar blew out into the parking lot. An entire booth cleared the front door and totaled a local alderman’s Honda Accord, which had been illegally parked in a handicap spot. Firefighters who arrived on the scene had to don oxygen masks. The blast had been so powerful it had all but blown itself out, and hardly anything was aflame in the bar itself, but in the basement, firefighters met a blazing pyre of uncut heroin; after the first two through the basement door began vomiting, the firemen pulled back and let the heroin burn until they were properly protected.
I would have tried to get a message to Cheese to let him know Bubba had acted on his own, but at six-thirty Cheese slipped on a freshly mopped floor at Concord Prison. It was a hell of a slip. Cheese somehow managed to lose his balance so completely, he fell over the guardrail on the third tier and dropped forty feet to a stone floor, landed on his oversized, trash-talking yellow head, and died.
PART TWO
WINTER
23
Five months passed, and Amanda McCready stayed gone. Her photograph—in which her hair fell limply around her face and her eyes seemed still and empty—stared out from construction sites and telephone poles, usually torn or decayed by weather, or on a newscast update every now and then. And the more we saw the photo, the more it blurred, the more Amanda seemed a fiction, her image just another in a steady barrage of images attached to billboards, sent out through picture tubes, until passersby noted her features with a detached wistfulness, unable to remember who she was anymore or why her picture was plastered to the light pole by the bus stop.
A month-long search of the quarries yielded nothing and ended when temperatures plummeted and November winds swept the hills. Come spring, divers promised they’d go back in, and once again proposals to drain and then cover the quarries with landfill were raised, and Quincy city officials who worried about the millions of dollars it would cost found strange bedfellows in preservationists who warned that filling the quarries would damage the environment and destroy a multitude of scenic vistas for hikers and walkers, deprive the people of Quincy of sites of great historical significance, and eradicate some of the best rock climbing in the state.
Poole returned to active duty in February, six months shy of his thirty, and was reassigned to narcotics and quietly demoted to detective first grade. Compared to Broussard, though, he was lucky. Broussard was busted down from detective first to patrolman, placed on nine months’ probation, and assigned to the motor pool. We met him for drinks the day after his demotion, a little over a week after that night in the quarries, and he smiled bitterly at his plastic swizzle stick as he swirled it through the cubes of ice in his Tanqueray and tonic.
“So Cheese said she was alive, and someone else told you Gutierrez was DEA.”
I nodded. “Far as her being alive, Cheese said Ray Likanski can corroborate.”
Broussard’s bitter smile lost its edge and turned forlorn. “We had APBs out for Likanski both here and in Pennsylvania. I’ll keep ’em active for you, if you want.” He gave me a small shrug. “Won’t hurt anything, I suppose.”
“You think Cheese was lying,” Angie said.
“About Amanda McCready being alive?” He removed the swizzle stick, sucked the gin off it, and placed it on the edge of the cocktail napkin. “Yes, Miss Gennaro, I think Cheese was lying.”
“Because he was a criminal and that’s what they do. Because he knew you wanted her to be alive so bad you’d buy it.”
“So when you visited him that day, he didn’t say anything like that to you?”
Broussard shook his head and removed a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. Smoking full-time now. “He acted all surprised about Mullen and Gutierrez getting hit, and I told him I was going to fuck up his life if it was the last thing I ever did. He laughed. Next day he died.” He lit the cigarette, closed one eye against the flare of heat from the match. “Swear to God, I wish I’d killed him. Shit, I wish I’d put a con up to it. Really. I just wish he died because someone who cared about that little girl iced him, and he knew that’s why he was dying all the way down to Hell.”
“Who did kill him?” Angie asked.
“Word I get is they’re looking at that psycho kid from Arlington, just got convicted of double homicide.”
“The kid who killed his two sisters last year?” Angie said.
Broussard nodded. “Peter Popovich. He was there a month for processing, and supposedly Cheese and him had some words in the yard. Either that or Cheese really did slip on the floor.” He shrugged. “Whichever, it works for me.”
Broussard took a sip of his drink. “No. Look, I’ll be honest. I don’t know what happened to that girl, and it bugs me. Bugs me bad. But I don’t think she’s alive, and I don’t think Cheese Olamon knew how to tell the truth even if it could help him.”
“What about Gutierrez as DEA?” Angie said.
He shook his head. “No way. We’d have been told by now.”
“So,” Angie said quietly. “What happened to Amanda McCready?”
Broussard looked down at the table for a bit, shaved off the white head of his cigarette against the rim of the ashtray, and when he looked up tears glistened in the red pockets under his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I wish to God I’d done everything differently. I wish I’d called in the Feds. I wish—” His voice cracked and he lowered his head and covered his right eye with the heel of his hand. “I wish….”